Tuesday, June 26, 2007


Yesterday, I went back to Craigslist to look at apartment sales listings. I'm not a Craigslist aficionado, although I know people who use the site to do everything from buy used furniture to find dog walkers to sell books. I'm turned off by what others find appealing: the basic "I built this site in my basement" feel. I find it difficult to search, am generally annoyed by the inaccuracy of the results I get (a search for "Brooklyn Heights" always returns many instances of "Dyker Heights" which just happens to be in Brooklyn) and tend to dismiss listings that are filled with spelling and punctuation errors. (Will my grammar-geek snobbery inhibit my ability to find that hidden gem of an apartment?)

Of course, this is all ridiculous, as the first apartment I wanted (and lost) I found on Craigslist. I haven't really looked there since, so enticed as I've been by the glitz and ease of the real estate sites, especially those that provide a consolidated look at listings from multiple sources. Yesterday I did another sweep of Craigslist and, amazingly, saw two apartments listed that seemed interesting. Inexpensive, in good neighborhoods, admittedly needing work. This is likely my sweet spot - the place with great potential, for sale by owner (thereby less expensive than that with the broker's fee factored into the selling price.)

But here's the catch. Having emailed both, I now have the option of stopping by both apartments after work this week. In both cases it's a male showing the place, and my natural paranoia slipped in a bit last night. Sounds like the start of a missing-white-woman story, the fake ad, luring women to an empty apartment, the abduction, the frantic search, the tragic discovery. Unfortunately I don't have anyone to go with me this week. And I'm probably being paranoid. But I'll email my brother with the details of where I'm going with the promise that I'll call him when I'm back home. Maybe he'll think I'm a freak, but I'll feel better.

I'm old, you see. According to several programs I've attended recently on the issues of the generational talent pool, no matter how the pie is sliced (and it varies; a co-worker of mine is either Gen X or Gen Y depending on who's doing the calculation), I am a Baby Boomer. I never thought of myself as a Baby Boomer. My mother's generation are the Baby Boomers. (Technically, she, born during the war, isn't, although her next youngest sibling, born 9 months after their father returned from overseas, joins Bill Clinton in the first wave of Boomers.) I'm the granddaughter of a WWII vet, not a daughter. Of course, he was 43 when I was born, and could easily have been a father of someone my age (his youngest daughter is just three years older than me) so it's all relative. (Sorry that is a bad pun.)

Anyway, most times I don't feel like a Boomer but times like this, I do. My mother would freak out about going to meet an unknown man in his apartment. My younger siblings would think we're being silly.


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